But I Shall Stay Alive
by foojules
Summary: Tom must bear being without Sybil, even if he never does find someone to bear it with him. This story looks in on various places in his progression through life, and toward happiness.
1. Chapter 1: June 1921

_AN: This was prompted by someone who reviewed "New Blood" and commented that the ending seems very sad for Tom. I don't disagree, Guest... but then 1922 isn't the real end for him, is it?_

_I wanted to write something that shows his progression toward (relative) happiness and fulfillment. This would involve a good relationship with his daughter and with his in-laws and family, satisfying work and hobbies, friends. I don't think he'd necessarily have to be remarried (or celibate, for that matter, but I won't go into that here). I'm not sure if it's anachronistic to write Tom as an involved single father who's not all that interested in finding a replacement mother for Sybbie, but I think it's consistent with his character._

_I meant for this to be a one-shot but it started getting long - so I'm publishing the first couple of chapters together as Chapter 1 is pretty melancholy. Setting a baseline._

_The title is from Pablo Neruda's "The Dead Woman." It seemed appropriate._

* * *

June 1921

They gather in the library for tea and cake. In addition to what the footmen bring out on plates there is a small decorated cake with a single candle, though Sybbie doesn't quite grasp the concept of blowing out the flame yet. Riding in the crook of her father's arm, she reaches out with her chubby hand and brings a fistful of crumbs and icing to smear around her mouth, crowing in delight when she tastes it.

Everyone smiles, but of course they're all thinking the same thing. Tom knows that he has plenty to celebrate. Sybbie is robust, blooming. Her fine baby hair has been replaced by thick brown curls that make her look more child than infant, and her eyes have brightened from their newborn steel blue into a clear, changeable azure. She's going to look just like her mother. Everyone says so.

And she's learning new things every day. Three days ago she took her first steps unassisted, tottering towards him in the nursery with babyish pride spread across her face. But he still can't choke down even a mouthful of cake. He wonders if Sybbie's birthday will always be more bitter than sweet.


	2. Chapter 2: June 1925

June 1925

They're all in the library when Sybbie and Matt march in looking purposeful. Once they've got the adults' attention, though, the children seem not to know where to begin.

"Yes, darlings?" Cora says. Tom thinks she shouldn't reward their bursting into tea like this, but then she's always indulged them.

Matt, the shyer one, makes a little urging gesture at his cousin. Sybbie lifts her chin. "Da, Aunt Mary, we want to speak wif you." Tom will feel a little sad when her lisp finally disappears.

Mary places her teacup in its saucer and turns toward the children; Tom perches on the sofa beside her. They exchange glances: obviously this is important business. "What is it, love?" He asks his daughter.

She approaches, stopping a short distance in front of them and clasping her hands before her as if for a recitation. "We would like a baby sister, please." Matt pulls on her sleeve and whispers into her ear. "Matt says a bruvver would be all right wif him." With difficulty Tom keeps the smile off his face, but he can't prevent his eyes from sparkling. Sybbie eyes him with suspicion. "I'm serious, Da."

He doesn't dare look at Mary. "Of course you are. My love, I'm afraid we can't help you there."

"Why can't you? Gladys Moore has got a baby sister. Why can't we have one as well?" Tom hears a strange sound to his left: without looking, he knows it's Edith suppressing a fit of giggles.

He sidesteps. "Maybe if you ask Gladys very nicely the next time you go to play with her, she'll share with you."

"She won't," Sybbie pouts. "She said I mightn't play wif the baby."

"But the baby's awfully new," Tom points out. "Gladys will probably get tired of her soon enough. And then she'll let you." Sybbie considers this: Tom can see her looking for holes in his logic.

Mary steps in to sweeten the deal. "It's so tiresome having to deal with a baby sister _all _the time. This way you'll only see her when you want to. _And _you won't have to share your toys."

That clinches it. Sybbie nods, satisfied. She and her cousin turn as one and stride out of the library as determinedly as they came in, and their parents can finally laugh.

* * *

_AN: Thanks for reading! More to come._


	3. Chapter 3: June 1928

_AN: Thanks very much for your reviews! I really appreciate people offering their thoughts, even if they don't agree with the direction of the story. I'm not sure whether I think that it would be in character for Tom to live the rest of his life without remarrying, either, but I wanted to explore the idea... and I do plan to address his reasons for it._

* * *

June 1928

Cora glides up to the sickroom door and eases it open. It's late and she doesn't want to wake Sybbie if she is finally sleeping, but she doesn't feel she can go to bed without having a look at her.

A rash still mottles Sybbie's skin, but the sedative Dr. Clarkson administered seems to have helped. Her eyes are closed, breathing regular. Her father is seated in a wing chair drawn up to the bed, slumped forward over the coverlet on folded arms. It looks like he meant to rest a moment and was taken unawares by sleep. Cora makes a mental note to have a cot set up in here: it will be a long confinement, and she doubts Tom will listen to anyone who tells him to sleep in his own room. He's hardly left his daughter's bedside since four days ago when her temperature rose to an alarming level and Dr. Clarkson was sent for. Scarlet fever, he said, even though there was no rash yet. It was in the county: Irene Lamkin, whose birthday party Sybbie attended last week, had it. Dr. Clarkson did not tell them that one of the other young party guests had already died. For forty-eight hours there was nothing to do but sponge Sybbie's skin and dose her every hour, and worry.

Certainly God would not be so cruel, Cora thought, watching Tom stroke Sybbie's dry, hot forehead, singing his voice hoarse to try and soothe her. She couldn't sleep, couldn't lie still. She vomited until there was nothing left in her stomach. At first she whimpered that her throat hurt; later speech gave way to a monotonous, suffering whine. Cora tried to take over the vigil, but Tom would not leave, though he of all people should have known how little his presence would affect the outcome. What he'd said just after Sybbie was born surfaced in Cora's mind: _She's all I have left of her mother. _Certainly God would not be so cruel.

On the third day the child's skin erupted in an ugly maroon tattoo, and on the fourth her fever abated. Dr. Clarkson pronounced her out of the first period of danger. Though they must be cautious, he warned, as there were still many complications that could occur: her diet must be restricted, the windows must be kept shut, even catching a slight cold before she's completely well could kill her.

Cora can see a marked improvement in Sybbie's condition even now, just a day later. Her fever's gone down more and the vomiting has all but stopped. Finally they can all get some rest. Cora's eye lands on Tom again and she feels a rush of tenderness, brought on by her own sentiment towards him as much as her appreciation of his parental devotion. Though their relationship has remained somewhat formal, they've found much to admire in each other over the last eight years. He is no longer just a link with Sybil, the man with whom she shared the last year of her life; he is the closest thing Cora has to a son.

She resists the urge to enter the room and lean him back in the chair, tuck a blanket around him and a pillow under his head. Instead she closes the door and goes to bed.

-o-

Sybbie has risen back to awareness quickly, and her symptoms have diminished until they're no more than a mild misery to her. Now there only remains the long quarantine. Tom and Cora are the only members of the family allowed into the room, as no one else had scarlet fever in childhood, and Mrs. Hughes and the hired nurse the only staff. Fortunately Mary and her son have gone to London already, so there is no danger of Matt falling ill.

The novelty of staying in bed all day soon palls on Sybbie: she's used to having the run of the estate, and to have her world reduced to one room and a few books and toys makes her petulant. In her protruding lip and capricious outbursts her father sees evidence that some of his wife's less agreeable characteristics have been passed down along with the glossy brown curls and affectionate nature.

To make matters worse, she is often alone. The estate's business has not come to a halt to accommodate a child's illness, and Tom has had to return to work. Although Cora and Mrs. Hughes sit with her as much as they can, they have responsibilities of their own. So by the time her father comes in each evening Sybbie is vibrating with impatience, clamoring for stories. They've gone through every fairy story he knows, every folk tale from his childhood, until Sybbie knows them backwards and corrects him at the smallest omission. Finally she demands new material.

Tom draws on his forebears for inspiration. "Once there was a boy in Ireland whose father was a tenant farmer..."

"What's a tenant farmer?"

"You know what a tenant farmer is, love, he works on land owned by a lord. Like Mr. Drake works your grandfather's land."

"Oh. Didn't the farmer want his own land?"

"Well, yes, love, but he didn't have enough money to buy it."

"Why didn't he have enough money?"

Now there's a question. _Because of an unjust system that keeps the wealthy on top and the poor struggling beneath their boot-heels_ seems like a rather harsh thing to say to an eight-year-old girl, so Tom just says, "That's the way the world is. A lot of people don't have very much money."

"That seems rather hard. How do they buy clothes and books and toys?"

"Sometimes they don't." She still looks perplexed, and he feels a twinge of discomfort that his daughter has so little idea of the way other people live. Nevertheless, he continues the story, making it up as he goes along. "And this boy, one day he -"

"I don't want a story about boys," Sybbie interrupts. "Boys are boring. Tell me about how you got Mama to marry you."

"I've told you that one lots of times. I thought you wanted something new."

"I've changed my mind." She cocks her head and directs a sidewise look at her father that still twists his insides a little: _she's so like Sybil_, he thinks for the thousandth time. "Great-grandmama says it's a woman's per... prer... that a woman can change her mind whenever she wants."

He supposes he shouldn't be surprised at such pearls, not from Violet. "Up to a point. Change it too often without reason and people will stop taking anything you say seriously."

She takes a moment to digest this. "All right, I'll just change it this once then. Tell me, tell me, tell me!" She bounces up and down in bed with each "tell me," not even backing down when Tom raises a disapproving eyebrow at her imperiousness. Not for the first time, Tom wonders if his daughter is just naturally headstrong or if she's getting spoiled. A bit of both, maybe.

Sybbie starts it off for him. "You were taking her to the school at York to learn how to be a nurse..."

"All right, all right. She didn't want me to take her things all the way to her room - "

"Because she was afraid people would think she was a spoiled little lord's daughter who couldn't carry her own bags - " Sybbie loves that part.

"Exactly. So I was just handing them over - "

"And she said it would be hard to let you go and you thought it's now or never so you said how you wanted her to run away with you."

Tom smiles at Sybbie's version of his proposal. What he's told her is mostly reconstructed from what Sybil told him: perhaps mercifully, he doesn't remember much of his speech that day. "But she didn't say yes for a long time after that."

"I know that! But she never said _no _and you said that even if Grandmama and Grandpapa wouldn't speak to her anymore you would devote every waking minute to her happiness and..."

"Who's telling the story here, me or you?" Sybbie shuts her mouth, looking chastened. "It's all right, love, I'm glad you know it so well."

"But you say the end bit. Where she did say yes."

"All right." Tom settles back in his chair. "She came into the garage..."

"Wearing a beautiful dress," Sybbie murmurs.

"... where I was reading the newspaper. And I put down the paper and stood up, and she told me she was ready to give me her answer." He's always edited the extraneous dialogue from this scene.

"And you were nervous. Your heart was going ba-boom, ba-boom..." Sybbie thumps her chest and giggles.

"Yes, I was very nervous. But she said, 'My answer is...'"

"'_I'm ready to travel, and you're my ticket,_'" Sybbie stage-whispers along with him. "And then you kissed her."

"Well, yes. After she said I could, of course."

She hugs herself, grinning. "And Grandmama and Grandpapa did talk to her again, after she married you, didn't they?"

"Of course they did. Your mama was so good and kind that no one could be angry with her for long."

"But why were they angry at all? Why didn't they want her to marry you?"

Another sticky question: one Sybbie hasn't asked before, surprisingly enough. He thinks a moment before answering. "They were afraid that she wouldn't be happy with me."

"Because she was a lady and you were a chauffeur."

Tom opens his mouth to say _There was more to it than that_ but then hesitates. He thinks of the gulf that lay between him and Sybil on that day in York, and how long it took them to bridge it. He thinks of Robert, Earl of Grantham, taking out his checkbook in the room above the pub, saying _You could start a new life in Ireland_, as if money were what he'd been after all along. He thinks of some of the nastier rumors that got around about why Sybil Crawley had suddenly run off to Ireland with the family chauffeur, rumors that bothered her even though she tried not to show it.

For Sybbie at eight, her parents' love story is a fairy tale: there's no need to complicate it. Not yet. So Tom says, "Yes, that was it. But we were happy, darling. Very happy indeed."


	4. Chapter 4: June 1930

_AN: Sorry I haven't updated this in a while... AU has been more inspiring lately. :) Thanks for reading and reviewing!_

* * *

June 1930

"Sybil Anne Branson! Don't you dare walk away from me!" Tom's voice and steps thunder through the saloon after his daughter. His face is flushed, his jaw clenched. He opens it wide enough to shout again: "_Sybil_!" She knows exactly what she's doing, running into the library: it's where she'll have an ally.

And there she is, making up to her grandpapa, when Tom catches up. Telling Robert the whole story - or her side of it, anyhow, which consists mainly of a litany of complaints against her father. Tom stands just inside the door, arms folded, until she finishes. "I didn't hear you tell him about cutting across Mr. Collins' east pasture and leaving the gate open," he comments.

"Da-_aaaa_!" Sybbie whines. "You don't understand! _Oooh_!" She groans in frustration and stamps her foot. Robert holds up a placating hand before Tom can work himself up again.

"Sybil, have you told me everything?" he asks in that arbitrator's voice of his.

Tom's temper gets the best of him before Sybbie can answer. "It's all down to that governess. I told you we should've sent her to the village school. Miss Jakes is too naive. Sybbie can play her like a bloody - play her like a fiddle."

Cora enters the room in time to hear Tom's last words. "Oh, Tom," she says, "governesses have been naive since the beginning of time. Sybil's certainly not the first girl to give hers the slip."

"I've half a mind to get rid of her entirely," Tom says, but more quietly. "If she can't keep something like _this _from happening - "

Sybbie advances on him, eyes flashing. "You'd better not!" She yells. "If you send Miss Jakes away, I'll - " she presses her lips together, trying to think of something shocking enough - "I'll run away!"

"Oho, you will, will you?" Tom's half amused now. "And where will you go, then, girly?"

Sybbie wilts. "I - I haven't thought about it. But I will run away!" Her fists clench. "And you'll be sorry."

"Sorry! I don't know about that. Is something funny?" That last is directed at Robert, who has gone into a fit of what looks suspiciously like laughter disguised as coughing.

Robert's mouth works. "Nothing, nothing." Cora seems to have caught it too: her cheeks are pink and she's looking anywhere but at her husband.

Tom shakes his head. "Well, _I_ don't see anything amusing about half a herd of sheep left to wander off," he snaps. "Mr. Collins and his man spent half the morning rounding them up, when there's plenty of other work that needs doing. Some of them had gotten into the road. What if one had been run over? That's a man's livelihood, Sybil."

The girl lowers her head, cheeks flaming. "I didn't think."

"No. You didn't. That's the problem." He can see a pair of tears making tracks through the dust on his daughter's face, and feels a pang of remorse. But the lesson must not go untaught. "You're going to go to Mr. Collins and apologize. And you'll work for him every morning for the next month. Whatever he tells you to do, you do it. That's if he'll even have you."

Cora gasps. "Tom, certainly that's too much - "

Tom cuts her off. "A little work's not going to hurt her. I dare say Miss Jakes' curtseying lessons can wait until afternoon."

Sybbie brightens. "Then you won't sack her?"

"No. I won't sack her." Tom is bemused when Sybbie launches herself at him and throws her arms around his waist, burying her face in his shirtfront. She's gotten so _tall_.

"Thanks ever so much, Da." Her voice is muffled. She releases him and pounds out of the room.

"You should be glad she's so fond of her governess," Robert remarks. "Our girls hated theirs. But then, she _was _rather a battle-axe."

Tom snorts. "Governesses. I don't know why I let you talk me into one." But his tone is mild.


End file.
